


The Little Things that Never Change

by Kellyscams



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Amnesia, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:30:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kellyscams/pseuds/Kellyscams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier is on the run, living on the streets of New York and searching for something--for answers, for himself, for something he doesn't even have a word for. But 'something' just might find him instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Things that Never Change

**Author's Note:**

> He needs to get closer to the roller coaster--the Cyclone, it’s called. One quick glance around tells him that no one close enough--four at four c’clock, two at seven, and one at twelve--will be a threat if they notice if he moves. Not that it really matters. But he doesn’t want to draw _any_ attention to himself. He moves quick and silently, hopping over the tall fence that separates the park from the rest of the world. 
> 
> The route feels familiar, as if he’s walked it numerous times. He reaches the Cyclone, the entrance to it and pauses by the turnstile. Fingers grazing over it, the metal of his hand clings lightly against it. Has he been through this? Was this the one he went through with tiny Steve Rogers? He turns his gaze to the right. The garbage pail is not there, not where it’s supposed to be. He pushes away from the turnstile and goes to the nearest garbage. It’s empty, not that it’d be too heavy for him either way, but it makes it that much easier to carry it over to where it belongs. 
> 
> He hovers over it, eyes closed as the memory creeps up again. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Steve Rogers is throwing up, his thin limbs trembling as his body heaves. He puts his hand on his back._
> 
>  
> 
> _“You gonna be alright, Stevie?”_  
>  _Steve Rogers nods._  
>  _“I’m never listening to you again.” Steve Rogers grunts._  
>  _He laughs. “Yeah you will, punk.”_  
>  _Steve Rogers takes in a deep breath, steadying himself on his feet, and looks at him, lips pressed together, but eyes soft._  
>  _“Jerk.”_
> 
>  
> 
> Footsteps. They’re not part of the memory. They come up heavy and clunky behind him. Not someone looking for him, but someone either way. He disappears without being seen, without being heard, leaving only a garbage pail for a confused security guard to put back.

**Part One:**  
 **Soldier**

It’s cold. It’s always cold. No matter what he does, adding layers of clothing he’s comes across or even steals, huddling under thick cardboard, he just can’t warm up. Every night it’s the same thing. He hides in alleys, behind dumpsters and pushed up against the wall. Surviving on scraps and swiping drinks from stores, he just keeps on searching. 

He’s not quite sure what he’s looking for. He just knows he needs to find it. People call him the Winter Soldier or the Asset; he’s overheard them, the people coming after him--Hydra, he assumes. He doesn’t want to go back with them though, doesn’t want to be put away again. Captain America calls him Bucky, he’s overheard him, too, as he and his companion trail him. He can’t go anywhere with him, it just… _I just can’t_. The museum calls him James--James Buchanan Barnes. He hasn’t been there in seventy-four days. Not that it matters. He has the entire exhibit memorized anyway. 

There are memories, or instincts really, of the man they call the Winter Soldier. Screams in the dark, faces in the night, blood and death. If there’s one thing he does know it’s that he breaking all rules, all orders ever given to him. Go back. Return after mission--completed or failed. The last mission he was given he failed. He couldn’t kill Captain America. He… _saved_ Captain America--Steve Rogers, the museum named him. It made his head hurt. Why had he saved him? There wasn’t much he remembered about the incident. All he could recall was the pull to keep him safe. That man--Captain America or Steve Rogers or whoever he was--he couldn’t let him die. No, going back is not an option, never was. 

He doesn’t know who he was before the Winter Soldier, there’s nothing there other than bits and pieces, quick snapshots of faces and voices, none that seem to make sense. He knows, somewhere deep inside, that he doesn’t want to do the things that he was taught to do anymore, but he doesn’t know how _not_ to do them. He’s out on his own, on the streets in a world he knows little about. 

That’s what brought him here, to the streets of New York, where the museum said he was from. It’s loud and crowded and bright, and all the people keep him on edge, but also make it easier to blend in. He moves among the crowds same as everyone else. He’s noticed sometimes, sure, but he’s avoided. The most he gets are curious glances and then is ignored once more. It’s better that way, makes it easier for him to spot those following him. 

Some days he doesn’t remember how he even got there. His mind feels fuzzy and hazy in the first few minutes of waking. When it clears, and he knows again why he’s here, it makes it a little easier. Frustration mounting a little more everyday, he moves silently up and down the streets trying to remember, _remember something_. It feels like he should, _feels_ like he’s been there before, maybe even several times, maybe even recently. There’s something about the long, crowded streets that feel oddly familiar, even comforting. But no matter how he tries, no matter how much he _knows_ it’s in there, he can’t bring the right memories forward. 

It’s as though they’ve been sent away, plunged deep into some dark place inside of him that’s just out of his reach. Still, he trudges on, throws Hydra off his trail, keeps away from Captain America, and won’t stop until he gets _something_ on his own. This is his mission now. And he will not fail this mission. He _needs_ to succeed, to finish this one. 

He’s angry most days. Who is he? Who was he? Who is he supposed to be now? There were so many words jumbled up inside his mind. Hatred pushes him on. Something horrible happened to him. A long time ago. It’s lost in the darkness. 

As the days melt away, becoming shorter and even colder, he finds himself wandering the streets towards a place called Luna Park on Coney Island. The first time he went, he hadn’t known what he was approaching. All he did was follow the streets. Now he’s been here several times already, always drawn back by the things he feels when there. The place is closed now, empty and solemn, not like the other day when it was filled with noises--rides running, people yelling, kids laughing. He likes it better when it’s closed. He can think better. There are no distractions, less threats, easier escape routes. There’s a baseball stadium across the way, something he’s sure wasn’t there a long time ago. Not because the building _looks_ new, just...because. 

Soft rain falls from the dark clouds in the sky. Ground moist and puddles forming, there aren’t many people out. Eight people are close enough to attack. He keeps his left hand wrapped firmly around the hilt of the knife in his pocket. There are approximately a half a dozen escape routes from his position. Across the street are parked cars. Empty from what he can tell, but he takes no chances, and sits sideways, so that his eyes can catch as much of his surroundings at they can.

Sitting at one of the stone tables in front of the hotdog place--the smell, the scent that comes from the food in there made him think he’d eaten them before--his gaze moves to stare out at the roller coaster on the other end of the park. The thing was made out of wood, a big and white, tall structure with twists and turns and it doesn’t look safe. 

A shiver runs through him as a breeze wraps around his body. Muscles coiling around his bones, he sucks in a deep breath. The thick coat he has on actually makes him stand out more. People are dressed in light jackets, sure, but he’s much colder than them. There are methods and routines to keeping warm. He’s waited in the snow for hours before, waiting for his target to present the opportunity to take them out. It’s not working as well anymore. He hasn’t the proper clothing or equipment, and he folds in on himself a bit, trying to keep the cold from penetrating what protection from the elements he has. 

_“Come on...just one ride.”_

The voice in his head startles him. Mindful of his surroundings, he gives nothing away, even if his breathing hitched for but a moment. He knows that voice. Knows it because it’s _his_. Not one that he’s used to hearing. A soldier has no need to talk. A soldier only listens. But that’s his voice--young, carefree--the voice of someone happy, like so many of the targets who never had a chance once they’d been assigned to him. 

_“Come on, Stevie, it’ll be fun.”_

He closes his eyes. There are images trying to come forward with the voice, pictures of something long forgotten, pushed aside for things Hydra wanted him to know. A soldier has no need for this. But _he_ wants them, at least, he thinks he does. He needs answers. 

_“I dunno, Buck.”_  
 _“One ride. It’ll be worth it.”_

Eyes popping open, his hand grips the edge of the table. The image, the answering voice...Captain America. Only it’s _not_ Captain America. Not that small, fragile boy he’d be able to snap in half with just a few fingers. Steve Rogers. His friend?

_Steve Rogers, tiny, skinny, pale and sweaty, his head hung over a waste pale, getting sick in it._

_Worry._

_“Shit, Steve, I’m sorry.”_

His hand had been on Steve Rogers’ back. He had been worried for Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers. The name, the face, the small boy, he _means_ something to him. Captain America looks different than Steve Rogers. But...the same. Those eyes, bright blue and full of something he doesn’t quite understand, they’re the same. Something that hasn’t changed. 

He needs to get closer to the roller coaster--the Cyclone, it’s called. One quick glance around tells him that no one close enough--four at four c’clock, two at seven, and one at twelve--will be a threat if they notice if he moves. Not that it really matters. But he doesn’t want to draw _any_ attention to himself. He moves quick and silently, hopping over the tall fence that separates the park from the rest of the world. 

The route feels familiar, as if he’s walked it numerous times. He reaches the Cyclone, the entrance to it and pauses by the turnstile. Fingers grazing over it, the metal of his hand clings lightly against it. Has he been through this? Was this the one he went through with tiny Steve Rogers? He turns his gaze to the right. The garbage pail is not there, not where it’s supposed to be. He pushes away from the turnstile and goes to the nearest garbage. It’s empty, not that it’d be too heavy for him either way, but it makes it that much easier to carry it over to where it belongs. 

He hovers over it, eyes closed as the memory creeps up again. 

_Steve Rogers is throwing up, his thin limbs trembling as his body heaves. He puts his hand on his back._

_“You gonna be alright, Stevie?”_  
 _Steve Rogers nods._  
 _“I’m never listening to you again.” Steve Rogers grunts._  
 _He laughs. “Yeah you will, punk.”_  
 _Steve Rogers takes in a deep breath, steadying himself on his feet, and looks at him, lips pressed together, but eyes soft._  
 _“Jerk.”_

Footsteps. They’re not part of the memory. They come up heavy and clunky behind him. Not someone looking for him, but someone either way. He disappears without being seen, without being heard, leaving only a garbage pail for a confused security guard to put back.

***

His legs are going to give out. He can’t keep running like this, but he can’t stop. They’ve found him. He doesn’t know how. Maybe he’s gotten careless, maybe it’s because of the tightness in his lungs--a sure sign of infection. It’s not something he’s used to. Sickness was so rare and went it happened, a few shots of something concocted by the doctors was enough to rid his body of it. 

He’d been sleeping in a church when they caught up with him. The doors had opened quietly, so quiet that no one other than him--and probably Captain America--would have heard it. On such high alert, it woke him. He slipped off the pew before he even knew who it was. He didn’t want to take any chances. The lights from their guns shined bright cones penetrating the darkness. He rolled underneath the pews until he reached the last one. One of them must have spotted him though, since moments after he was out of the church, they were right on his heels. 

The air in his lungs is beginning to fall short. If he stops to catch it, they might catch up with him. If he doesn’t, and he can’t go on, they _will_ catch him. They’re close. He can tell, so he darts into the nearest alley and slips into a dumpster. It isn’t stealthy enough, he’s sure of it. Rather than risk capture because he’s cornered, he buries himself deep under the garbage, enough so that he’s touching the bottom. Sure enough, he hears the lip open. Holding his breath, he keeps still. They won’t find him as long as he doesn’t move. 

“Dead end.” Someone calls, and then the cover drops again.

It smells in there. It’s cramped and dark, but he just doesn’t have it in him to get out right away. He closes his eyes, head drooped forward, and falls back to sleep.

He has a fever when he wakes. His body is shaking with it. All these weeks outside, they’re not good for him. Sure, his system will take care of it, but not quick enough. He steals some sort of medicine from a store, swiping it off the shelf and leaving the store before anyone can realize there’s something suspicious about him. 

Outside again, he takes a swig of the stuff. It’s red liquid and it feels warm, almost funny, going down his throat. Some of it dribbles out of his mouth since he tries to drink it so fast. He’s wiping his chin clean when his eyes catch the front of the store he’s by. It makes him freeze and nearly drop the bottle of medicine. He _knows_ this place. He doesn’t just recognize it. He knows it.

The building is brick, and attached to the ones on both sides of it. The storefront is painted a light green, and there are two big windows on either side of the wooden door. He doesn’t need to look at the name of the place to know it’s a bakery. They make bread here, bread that melts in his mouth. That’s not all. He eats it and goes to the park; the park around the block. He goes to play stickball there. Every Sunday after Steve Rogers drags him to church. Sunday’s are the one day a week he doesn’t work. Steve Rogers goes with him. He lives with Steve Rogers--they live together. Steve Rogers is angry with him today.

_“I don’t see what the big deal is.” Steve Rogers grumbles._  
 _“You’ll have an asthma attack if you play.” He tells him. “You know that.”_  
 _“Then why am I going?” Steve Rogers asks._

It came on hard and fast, so overwhelming that he falls back. He would have tumbled onto his backside if he didn’t slam into the wall instead. Grabbing his head, he thinks it’s just best to shake it away. This is too much. Too much, too fast; it hurts. And it doesn’t stop. He can’t make it stop. 

_“Cause I want ya to. But if you really don’t want to…” He sighs. “I’m going home to change.”_

Home. A breath catches in his throat and he straightens up. Right across the street and around the block. Home. He hurries there. The buildings are different, the streets the same. That building isn’t the same, it’s more like the one’s surrounding it, bars on the windows, metal fire escapes zig-zagging across the sides, but it’s still the one in his mind. He stands there staring at it, at the place that was once home. His heart pounds, pumping some feeling he doesn’t quite understand through his veins. He can’t remember knowing this, but it’s right. It’s right and it was taken. All of this was taken away from him. 

Anger surges through him. Everything was gone, lost somewhere in the deepest vaults of his mind. They were there, somewhere, and he couldn’t reach them. He tore down the street, cold and hungry and full of rage. Until he gets to the park. The blacktop. Where he plays stickball...where Steve Rogers always shows up to each and every game. 

Steve Rogers.

***

The weather is getting even colder, as is he. Some nights he can’t take it. He doesn’t want to go to homeless shelters--it just seems an obvious place to be caught. But he just can’t help it. He needs to get inside to warm up. First thing in the morning, he leaves. He can’t chance staying any longer than it takes to get warm again.

His cold is gone. So are the Hydra agents. For now anyway. He stays near the old place...home, whenever he can. Every now and then he wakes up somewhere else, somewhere he doesn’t remember getting to. It never fails to infuriate him. The gaps in his mind, they’re almost as bad as the wipes--almost. Because this time around, it’s just happening, and he’s not sure why. 

Everyday he goes to the park. No matter where he wakes up, that’s where he wants to be. The place is pretty empty most days. Now that winter is right around the corner, people are staying indoors more often. It makes things easier for him. There are less civilians to look out for, so anyone coming for him will be simpler to spot.  
He needs to be there. It’s not the wisest course of action, he knows that, but he returns all the time anyway. He’s waiting for something. What he’s waiting for he doesn’t know. But he comes back to wait just the same. 

Until the day something changes. 

The bench he’s on is cold, still covered with a bit of frost from the night before. It’s the only one he’ll sit on. The back of it is close enough to the school building that his back is not exposed, no one can sneak up on him. So far, there are only two people there, two men, playing chess. They’re here just as often as he is. Neither of them speak much--he can hear from where he is when they do. 

He’s got his arms wrapped tightly around him, pulling the battered coat across him even more. There’s a wool hat on his head, covered by another hat--a baseball cap. Inside his boots, he keeps his toes curled. The glove on his right hand helps shield it from the cold and the one on his left simply conceals it. 

One of the men playing chess gets his attention when he calls out ‘check’, and when he looks up, he sees him. His heart twists and he immediately tenses to move at the first convenient moment. Steve Rogers has just come into the park, his eyes scanning the area. His companion is right behind him, gazing in all the directions that Steve Rogers doesn’t. 

Once the both of them have their sights set in spots completely away from him, he silently gets off the bench and slips into the shadows, unheard, unseen. He just stands there, knowing full well that he won’t be seen, and simply watches Steve Rogers as he moves about the park. He hugs the wall, making sure to stay away from anyone that might see him. 

Steve Rogers doesn’t leave. Steve Rogers and his companion, named Sam apparently, sit down on one of the benches. From where he is, he can just make out their words. 

“You know this place?” Sam asks Steve Rogers.  
Steve Rogers nods. “We used to come here every weekend. We lived just a few blocks away. This is one of the places pretty much the same now as it was then.”

So he was right. This was a place he knew, really _knows_. It’s not a fabrication, not a dream, it’s real. Things happened here. He’d been here with Steve Rogers more than once. Those pictures in his mind, clouded over with Hydra’s suggestions and more recent memories of blood and violence, are real. 

He closes his eyes and just listens to Steve Rogers talk.

“I watched him every Sunday.” Steve Rogers was saying. “After church.”  
“You were both church goers then?” Sam asks.  
Steve Rogers shakes his head. “Not really. Bucky came for me.”  
“What’d you two do here?”  
“Stickball,” Steve Rogers points to the area where he’s kept hidden.  
“Could you even…”  
“Not me. Just Bucky.” Steve Rogers chuckles. “He wouldn’t let me play no matter how much I asked.” 

_No, of course not. You couldn’t play. You’d have gotten sick. You could have had an asthma attack. I couldn’t let that happen._

He protects Steve Rogers. That’s what he does. Just like jumping into the river after Steve Rogers. He can’t recall _why_ Steve Rogers had fallen into the river, but it happened, and he had gone in to save him. The man on the bridge was his mission. Steve Rogers needed him. Tears drip from his eyes. He doesn’t know why, but they’re there. 

Wiping his face clean, he thinks about leaving. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Instead, he stays out of sight and just stays for hours to watch and listen to Steve Rogers.

***

He waits for Steve Rogers to leave and stop coming to the park. Only Steve Rogers doesn’t. He’s not sure if he’s been seen or not, or if Steve Rogers just feels the same pull to this place as he does. But Steve Rogers and Sam sit on the bench he usually sits on, and everyday, from morning to evening, either in silence or talking--usually about Bucky, Steve Rogers’ Bucky. He sits up on the roof of the school building and just listens. With Steve Rogers’ talking, it’s easier to pull memories forward. 

“We went fishing every summer.” Steve Rogers comments.  
“Ever catch anything?” Sam wonders.  
Steve Rogers chuckles. “Sometimes.”

_“Look, Bucky!” Steve Rogers exclaimed as he reeled his line in. “I got one!”_

_They were children, one small, the other smaller. They were at the piers. They went there every summer. Steve Rogers, tiny, hair always messy and dirt on his face, rarely caught a fish. So when he did…_

_“Hang on to it tight, Stevie,” He said, abandoning his own fishing pole to wrap his hands over Steve Rogers’ in order to help him. Steve Rogers wasn’t always strong enough to hold on to it. “That’s it.” He encouraged as the fished came closer and closer to the surface and then helped him pull it up onto the docks. “You got it!”_  
 _“Yes!” Steve Rogers practically yelled and then held onto his chest._

He had been afraid. He told Steve Rogers not to over do it because of asthma. That he remembers. All of it. That whole day.

“Bucky loved to dance.” Steve Rogers voice is soft when he says this. “He loved to go out and cut a rug. Even tried to teach me how but,” Steve Rogers laughs. “I was hopeless. Two left feet and all.”

_Liquor ran through his veins, his body buzzing and warm with life and excitement. He was all smiles and a pile of energy. The band played quickly, and he moved across the floor, feet sliding gracefully and twirling Mary-Ellen back into him._

_He’d thought about taking her home, asking her to join him for a little while. She wouldn’t be the first, and he doubted she’d be the last. Admittedly, he’d shamefully forgotten a name or two. But he never treated any dame that he was will poorly. He knew how to treat them right._

_Then he saw Steve Rogers, small and skinny, barely up to the shoulders of half the people there. Steve Rogers was standing off to the side, and he no longer wished to dance with Mary Ellen, or take her home._

He tried to teach Steve Rogers how to dance. They had laughed and fallen all over one another when Steve Rogers could barely stay on his feet. 

Something happens to his stomach at the thought. He’s not sure what it is exactly, but he feels warm. It’s nothing like the cold that’s plagued him for as long as he can remember now. Inside, he’s warm.

“I got pneumonia once after my ma’ died,” Steve Rogers tells Sam. “Bucky never left my side.”

_Steve Rogers was wrapped up in blankets and still shivering. Face pale and streaked with sweat, eyes closed and breathing shallow. He sat at his side, wiping Steve Rogers’ brow with a cool cloth. Fear made him shake. Steve Rogers was going to die. Death lingered around the boy in the bed, waiting to snatch Steve Rogers and take him away. That couldn’t happen. It just couldn’t._

_“Please don’t die, Stevie,” He whispered, holding onto his hand like it would somehow keep death at bay. “You can’t die.”_  
 _Steve Rogers’ eyes opened just a little. “Bucky...I love you.”_  
 _“Don’t you do that.” He scolded. “Don’t you say goodbye. This isn’t the end of the line.”_

The tears in his memory make their way to his eyes. The end of the line. What was that? What did the mean? _I’m with you till the end of the line._ He had been so afraid. He pleaded to a God he didn’t fully believe in to take him instead. Not Steve Rogers. Please, not Steve Rogers. 

And so he had kissed him. Right on the lips. Because he couldn’t let either of them leave this world without having done so.

The feel of his lips pressed up against Steve Rogers’ was so clear, so vivid, it was like it happened only hours ago. Steve Rogers’ hadn’t died, and for sometime, he wondered if the kiss had saved him. 

He had needed Steve Rogers to believe alive. He needs Steve Rogers to keep on living. He just needs Steve Rogers.

***

It’s been a week and a half and Steve Rogers still comes to the park. He still sits with Sam and still talks about the Bucky he knew. Whoever that Bucky was...well he’s in there somewhere. He can feel him inside, even catches small glimpses of him. He’ll never fully be that Bucky, not after being tarnished by Hydra and the Winter Soldier. There’s so much blood and death--innocent lives taken by his hands, the fingers that pulled the trigger. That Bucky is gone. But...maybe…

He’s sure they know he’s there, sure that’s why they keep returning same time everyday. More to the point, he’s tired. He’s tired and he’s cold and he’s hungry. Can he go on like this? Sure. He can probably go until his body wears out ( _if_ it ever did). But he doesn’t want to. And now he knows he doesn’t need to be tired. Doesn’t need to be cold and hungry. 

There are missing pieces in his mind, gaps that are blank or fuzzy, some that might not even be real. After nearly five months, the one thing he’s sure of it Steve Rogers. Not the man down there. He can’t be sure what his brain makes of him. But he _is_ sure of the feeling he gets in his gut every time he thinks about him dying or hurt. Steve Rogers means something to him. 

Today he doesn’t hide on the roof. Instead, he lingers in the shadows of the few trees in the corner of the park, just in the sightline of the bench Steve Rogers and Sam occupy. All day long he’s made a point to keep behind the trees themselves. He’s not sure he can do this, not sure if he _should_ do this. All his escape routes are marked off in his head. He can get away if he changes his mind. Although he _had_ thrown them off his trail before, they always seem to find him again. Now he doesn’t know if maybe he _wanted_ Steve Rogers to find him. 

He holds onto that idea tightly as he steps to the side of the tree. It’s late into the afternoon, the sun to his back, giving him a better advantage. At first he isn’t noticed. Steve Rogers is looking down, his expression worn and sullen. It’s Sam that spots him first. Without taking his eyes off of him, Sam taps Steve Rogers’ shoulder. Attention gotten, Steve Rogers lifts his eyes to look at Sam and then follows his gaze to where he’s standing. 

Steve Rogers looks like he’s about to jump up, and it makes him tense. But Steve Rogers thinks better of it and just stares back at him. Steve Rogers’ lips move quickly as they say something to Sam. Sam nods, and Steve Rogers slowly lifts himself off the bench. The steps are measured, slow and calculated as Steve Rogers makes his approach. 

His body tenses more and more the closer Steve Rogers gets. Steve Rogers must sense this since he stops, closer to him than anyone has been in a long time. He drops and lifts his gaze as he and Steve Rogers stand in silence. Neither of them speak for several minutes. It’s Steve Rogers to break first. 

“Hey, Buck.”

_“Thank you, Buck. But I can get by on my own.” “Thing is, you don’t have to.”_

_“Sometimes I think you like getting punched.” “I had him on the ropes. You get your orders?” “107th. Sergeant James Barnes. I ship out for England in the morning.”_

_“What’d you tell her about me?” “Only the good stuff.”_

_“This isn’t some back alley, Steve, it’s war.” “I know it’s a war, you don’t need to tell me that.” “Why are you so keen on fighting? There are so many important jobs…” “I’m not gonna sit in some factory, Bucky! Bucky, come on!”_

_“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.” “How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.” “Punk.” “Jerk.”_

_“Bucky? Oh my God.” “Is that...Steve…?” “I thought you were dead.” “I thought you were smaller.” “What happened to you?” “I joined the army.” “Did it hurt?” “A little.” “Is it permanent?” “So far.”_

_“Just go, get out of here!” “No, not without you!”_

_“See, I told you, bunch of idiots.” “How about you? You ready to follow Captain America to the jaws of death?” “Hell no. That skinny kid from Brooklyn who was too dumb to back down from a fight? I’m following him.”_

_“You remember that time I made you ride the cyclone?” “Yeah and I threw up?” “This isn’t payback, is it?” “Now why would I do that?” “Punk.” “Jerk.”_

_“Bucky, no!”_

_“Bucky?” “Who the hell is Bucky?”_

He grabs his head and steps back. So many memories, so many emotions run through him that it’s too much. There’s so much of Steve Rogers in his mind. Little Steve Rogers, who he loved so much. Captain America, who was still just a big Steve Rogers, who he loved so much. He can’t take it. He turns. 

“No wait!” Steve Rogers pleads. “Bucky, please...don’t go…”

The way Steve Rogers’ voice cracks makes him stop. He can’t cause Steve Rogers pain. His back is too him now, but he still doesn’t go any further. For a long while, he just stands there, and Steve Rogers does nothing, not even attempting to come closer. Finally, he turns around.

His mouth feels dry and his throat is constricted. Shifting his weight back and forth between his legs, his gaze lifts and drops.

“Steve…” The name is sweet and pleasant on his tongue. “Right?”

The attempt not to smile at the sound of his name coming from him is definitely made, but Steve Rogers’ lips still curl upward. 

“That’s right.” Steve Rogers says. “You remember…”  
“No.” He shakes his head, eyes wandering the perimeter as he calculates just how quickly he can get away. “I...I’m not sure _what_ I remember but…” He crushes his jaw. Anger pulses through him, though he’s not completely sure where it’s coming from. “ _Steve_ feels right.”  
“You did save my life that day.”

He’s not sure how that makes him feel--comforted or even angrier. His eyes narrow, but he’s able to unclench his fists. When he does this, Steve Rogers takes step forward, arms lifted just enough from him to notice. His brain goes on high alert. 

_Danger. Threat. Incoming._

There is no need to think, no need to plan. Instinct takes over and he reacts. Knife in right hand, left arm out to keep the danger away. Right leg back, ready to pounce, left leg forward to brace himself. 

_Threat stands down. Backs off. Palms out. Submission._

He shakes his head. No longer a threat. He’s not sure if there ever was one. Steve Rogers waves over his shoulder. Sam sits back down. No threats. 

“I’m sorry.” Steve Rogers apologizes, palms still up. “I didn’t...I didn’t think.”

Never a threat. Steve Rogers wasn’t moving in to attack. The position suddenly made it’s way back to his mind. A hug. Steve Rogers had moved into to give him a hug. 

Hugs flash through his mind.

_A woman. Mama?_  
 _A man. Pa?_  
 _Stevie._  
 _Steve._  
 _Steve Rogers._  
 _Captain America._  
 _Steve._

There were so many hugs, and suddenly he feels hungry for one. One from Steve Rogers. But he can’t have one. What if Steve Rogers pulls a knife on him? What if Steve Rogers pulls a gun on him? What if Steve Rogers tries to kill him?

_“Please don’t make me do this.”_

Steve Rogers continues standing there, position non-threatening and face fallen. All the tension in his own body melts away. He lowers his eyes for a second, Steve Rogers disappearing for that brief instant. When his lifts his gaze again, seeing Steve Rogers in the same position, and finds his voice again.

“I’m tired.” He admits. 

Steve Rogers eyes swell up with moisture. It looks like tears. Are they tears? Tears for him?

“Come with me?” Steve Rogers offers. “Please? I can help.”

No. Yes. He doesn’t know what to do. A shiver passes through him. Being so near Steve Rogers, having those glimpses into the life they once shared, it hurts. He wants what he knows is inside of him. 

“Steve?”  
“Yeah?”  
“You’re still with me till the end of the line?”

He’s still not really sure what that is, what it means, but it’s something important. Steve Rogers slowly lifts his hand and reaches out to him. The hand gently takes hold of his shoulder. It feels good, nice.

“Till the end of the line, pal.”

**Part Two:**  
 **Barnes**

He goes to a place called the Avengers’ Tower with Steve Rogers and Sam (He can’t help being leery of Sam. He doesn’t know him. Not in his mind, not in his gut. He was just a target he’d failed to kill)--a place he’s scouted many times. They take the stairs up several stories, Sam leaving through a door halfway, until they reach a floor that Steve Rogers says is his. 

“We’ll be alone.” Steve Rogers tells him. “But there are other people here. They don’t know you’re here yet--”  
“I’m not stupid.” He grumbles, interrupting whatever else Steve Rogers was going to say. “Of course they don’t know I’m here.”  
“I…” Steve Rogers’ mouth hangs open, like he’s both shocked by that response and not sure what to do now. “I’m sorry. Do you want to take a shower? Freshen up?”

Steve Rogers shakes his head and lowers his chin. It appears that he’s feeling awkward and unsure, especially by the way his hand scratches the back of his head and he twists his lips. But a shower _does_ sound nice. It’s been months since he’s had a decent scrub down, having been keeping himself clean by use of public restrooms. 

“Yes.” He replies. 

He lets Steve Rogers lead him to the bathroom where all the necessary items for showering are pointed out to him. Steve Rogers lingers for a few moments before shuffling out of the bathroom, telling him he’ll be right out in the other room if he needs him. Undressing, he lets his tattered clothes pile onto the floor before turning the water on. It’s hot, steamy, the way he _likes_ it. 

When he steps into the shower, he just stand there. Hydra used to wash him after missions. They’d clean him up with cold water, take care of any bumps, cuts and bruises he had, tinker on his arm to make sure it was fully operational and then…

He shakes his head. No one was going to put him away. On missions he’d wash himself. The moves were for tactical reasons, quick and mechanical just because it needed to be done. Now, he can clean himself because he _wants_ to, so he takes the soap and slowly lathers it up across his body, and smiles a little as he watches the dirty water swirl around the drain. 

The shower runs until the hot water is all used up. He towels off and then cautiously makes his way back to the other room. On the edge of the bed, Steve Rogers is sitting with a stack of clothes and his cheeks are touched with pink when his eyes land on him. It only occurs to him then that standing naked in front of other people like this isn’t something one usually does. 

“Uh…” 

The noise catches in his throat and he’s suddenly overcome with fear. He’s made a dire mistake. 

_A soldier doesn’t make noise!_  
 _A soldier waits for orders!_  
 _A soldier is still as stone!_

No. It’s okay. He’s not the Winter Soldier, and Steve Rogers doesn’t appear put off by his attempt to say something, even if there wasn’t anything he really wanted to say.

Steve Rogers stays where he is, only moving enough to hand him the clothes in his lap. They’re not practical, loose fitting pants that will catch the air if he tries to run and slow him down. Same with the shirt. He puts them on anyway. But when he’s about to pull the shirt over his head, Steve Rogers gasps. 

“Bucky, you’re bleeding.”

There are various cuts and bruises on him, but the gash on his right shoulder is what hurt most recently. He looks at it and sure enough, it’s opened up.

“It’ll stop.” He murmurs.  
Steve Rogers rises off the bed. “Will you let me look at it?”

Concern laces Steve Rogers’ voice. He’s not sure what to make of it. Then again, Steve Rogers has had ample time to attack and hasn’t yet. He supposes there might not be any harm in letting him look so he nods.

“Come on,” Steve Rogers gestures to the spot he just vacated. “Why don’t you sit?”

His body moves automatically, listening to what Steve Rogers wants him to do because that’s what a good soldier does, and he sits. Steve Rogers has moved into the bathroom and comes back quickly with a small white box. That’s something he’s familiar with. Medical supplies. It’s set down on the bed next to him, and Steve Rogers carefully and gently--so much more gently than Hydra--inspects his wound. 

Steve Rogers cleans it for him. Sure, he could do it on his own, but it looks as though letting Steve Rogers do it makes him happy and he wants Steve Rogers to be happy. It’s when Steve Rogers is putting a bandage over it, and places one hand on the front of his shoulder while doing so, that he freezes. Steve Rogers notices and goes still with him. The hand on him is about to pull away, but he doesn’t want it to, so he places his own atop it. 

For a few moments, they just stay like that. Because something is happening inside of him. He can’t look at Steve Rogers, but Steve Rogers is most definitely looking at him.

“I remember your touch.” He states.  
Steve Rogers doesn’t move. “You do?”  
He nods. “This isn’t the first wound you’ve look at.”  
“No.”

He closes his eyes as a flood of memories drown him for a moment. He can’t make much sense of them, but it’s Steve Rogers taking care of him, of war and sleeping in dirt, curled together for warmth and comfort. 

Drawing in a breath, his eyes find Steve Rogers’. All that matters in this moment is one thing.

“I remember your touch.”

***

After that, Steve Rogers becomes Steve. And he, well he isn’t Bucky, even though he doesn’t mind it so much when Steve slips and calls him that. He just isn’t Bucky, doesn’t feel like the name fits him. Soldier is out. No one will deny him a name, an identity, ever again if he can help it. James doesn’t feel right either, something about it is just off. So he settles on Barnes. 

Steve slowly introduces him to the rest of the people--the Avengers, they call themselves--one at a time. He makes it a point to space out the introductions, as though he’s worried will be too overwhelming for Barnes. Barnes doesn’t thank him for this, even though he knows he should. Then again, he doesn’t say too much of anything anyway and Steve doesn’t seem to mind. In the beginning, Barnes sticks to Steve like a shadow. He doesn’t feel safe without him. 

At first, he feels ridiculous. He was the Winter Soldier, apparently a pretty famous ghost story in some circles, and now he clings to Steve like a baby duck. Then again, from what he does know, does remember and does feel, Barnes wants nothing to do with the Winter Soldier, and he’s not quite sure how to do that. Not yet anyway. 

And Steve doesn’t appear to care that he has another shadow. In fact, he seems almost anxious anytime they’re not together and relieved when they are again. In this, Barnes takes a little bit of comfort and continues to follow Steve around, mostly in silence, and does as he told like a good soldier should.

There’s a medical exam that Steve wants him to have a few days after he first arrives. Barnes won’t go into the room though, even with Steve assuring him that everything was fine. 

_Cold, hard metal underneath his body. Strapped down. Fear. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant, 32557. Just kill me. Please._

_A loud buzzing sound. Pain. Agony. Screaming._

“No.” Barnes denies. “I’m not going in there.”

He doesn’t want to disobey, but he doesn’t want to go in there.

“Buc, er, Barnes, it’s alright.” Steve says softly. “No one is…”  
“ _Please_.” He growls, panic rising in his throat. “I don’t want to go in there.”  
“It’s okay.” Bruce Banner assures them both. “I’ll come to you if that makes you more comfortable.”  
“Is that okay, Bucky?” Steve asks.

Barnes only nods, as a strange realization sets in. He disobeyed, resisted and questioned, and wasn’t punished for it. He’s not a soldier here, at least not now, not with Steve. And he knows exams are necessary, but the smell of that room, the sight of it, the sterile air and bright lights, he doesn't like them. 

Dr. Banner does a few familiar things. He presses a cold stethoscope against his chest, takes his temperature (“It’s a little high,” He tells Steve. “But then, so is your baseline. That might be normal for him.”) 

And then Barnes is being pinned down by Steve. The last thing he can remember is a needle. The moment clarity returns to him, and he realizes he had attacked when Dr. Banner tried to take blood, Barnes goes lax in Steve’s arms. Steve was saying things to the doctor, who was across the room, hand over his heart and sucking in deep, deep breaths.

“Bruce? Bruce, it’s okay...are you…”  
He holds his palm out and nods. “I’ll be alright. Gimme a minute.”

When Steve felt him relax, he loosens his grip and now that he is no longer struggling, Barnes moves away from him. 

“I’m sorry,” He whispers. “I...I shouldn’t be here…”  
“No, it’s okay.” Dr. Banner murmurs. “I understand.”

At first, Barnes doesn’t believe him. How could he? That man doesn’t understand what it’s like to lose himself to something inside of him that he can’t control. But then, the look in his eyes, the sincerity on his face...maybe he _does_ understand. (When Barnes later learns of Bruce Banner and the Hulk, he feels a special connection with him)

The first time Tony Stark asks to look at his left arm, Steve says no before Barnes can even think about it. He goes along with Steve’s decision until several weeks later when Tony Stark keeps pestering and insisting that he really does just want to look. 

“It’s fine.” Barnes says.  
“You don’t need to, Bu...Barnes.” Steve assures him. “Just ignore Tony.”  
Barnes shrugs. “I’m used to it.”  
“Hey, no, I didn’t…” Tony twists his mouth. “You know what? How about if you want me to look at it you come find me?”

The look on Steve’s face is warm and appreciative. Barnes isn’t sure what made Tony Stark back off, but it makes Steve feel good. 

Sam and Nat are the only others that make Barnes feel a little more comfortable. The way Sam talks to him, like he’s not broken or damaged, even when he says nothing in response--which is more often than not--it’s nice. And Natasha speaks in Russian to him when English fails him, which usually happens when he’s just too overwhelmed and Steve isn’t sure what to do. 

Clint Barton is the only one that really didn’t have much of a reaction to Steve’s introduction. He glances up from his sandwich and gives him a flick of the fingers. It’s as though Steve showing up with a ghost story is just something normal and he doesn’t mind in the least. 

It’s Thor that makes him the most uneasy. At first anyway. Still today. But not as much. Thor’s girth, his loud, boisterous ways, it all screams threat. After just a few interactions, either Thor seems to realize he makes Barnes uneasy or someone else points it out, because he talks significantly softer. 

Barnes now fully remembers fishing on the piers. He remembers dancing a lot, too. He can recall staying up all night watching over Steve with pneumonia, back alley fights and nursing asthma attacks and colds, and the two of them swimming in the Hudson River. His mother smelled like soap and his father’s voice was deep, but soft. He’s talked about the Cyclone ride that made Steve sick. Sometimes Barnes isn’t sure he prefers _not_ remembering these things. Sometimes he thinks having them in his head makes things even harder. Still, there are those moments between long stretches, even days of silence, when Barnes starts a conversation about something he remembers--playing stickball after school, for instance, or the time he and Steve watched the Yankees come back to beat the Red Sox in the bottom of the ninth--and he’ll go on and on about it as though it makes him happier than anything. 

Then there are the things that Barnes won’t talk about. Things that have him pacing back and forth. Things that bring tears to his eyes. Things that have him white as a ghost and soaked with sweat. No matter how hard Steve has tried to get him to talk about it, Barnes refuses. All he’s managed to ever do for him is calm him down to a point where Barnes will let Steve hold him. Steve holding him always feels nice, but Barnes is too afraid to ask for it more than that.

Most of Barnes’ memories seem to either rise out of a fog, gradually becoming clearer and clearer, or pop up on him out of the blue. The ones that hit him out of nowhere tend to frighten him. Unlike the others, he has no time to warm up to them, no time to adjust to the way they’re about to make him feel or react. His reactions to them usually range from tears to giggles to angry outbursts and everything in between. 

In the beginning, Barnes rarely slept. He’d pace for hours, unwilling to let himself drift off until his body just couldn’t stay up any longer. Then he’d sleep for a bit, and force himself awake, so afraid that there would be one day he’d wake and find himself trapped behind the eyes of the Winter Soldier. The doctors that Steve has him see once a day--SHIELD’s top therapists there to help Captain Rogers’ friend recover--told him they were worried about him hurting himself and had him on suicide watch. Which meant that he had someone shadow him at almost all times, even though he stuck to Steve like glue. Not that Barnes ever _really_ considered offing himself...not really anyway. Or maybe he had. He’s not a hundred percent sure _how_ he feels sometimes. Regardless, until very recently, he’s had someone with him at all times. 

Now, Barnes sleeps all the time. He’s just so tired--always tired, something he’s told isn’t uncommon. He’ll spend all day in bed if Steve will let him. But Steve rarely does. 

“Come on, Barnes.” He wakes him gently like he does every morning when he gets back from his run with Sam. “You need to get up.”

Barnes pulls the pillow over his head, starting to get used to not jumping at the ready anytime Steve says something that sounds like an order. There’s sometimes still a strong pull to listen, to obey like a soldier does, but it’s a bit easier to resist now. 

“I’m tired.” He replies.  
“I know. But you need to eat. You can go back to sleep after you eat.”

Barnes scoffs. No he can’t. Steve _always_ finds a reason for him to stay awake. Some days it works. He’s overheard Steve and the others call those times ‘good days’. Others, not so much. Though Barnes isn’t keen on disappointing Steve, which he suspects he does more often than not, some days he just _can’t_ get out of bed. He has no energy, just can’t find that energy that usually spurs him on during missions. Those days are called ‘bad days’. 

Today, Barnes rubs his eyes when Steve carefully peels the pillow away from his face. More recently, since the months have gone by, the Winter Soldier has taken over less and less. But he still makes appearances, shutting Barnes out and taking over until Barnes can fight his way back in. Barnes hates that. Hates that Steve needs to be so careful around him, tiptoeing and sugarcoating, instead of just knocking the pillow away and telling him _get the hell outta bed, jerk_ like the Steve in his memories would have. He hates feeling like glass, ready to shatter at the slightest of impacts. 

“Can you get up for me, Barnes?” Steve wonders. “If you’re really that tired today, I’ll bring food to you. But you’re eating something.”  
Barnes nods and slowly sits up. “I’m coming.”

That makes Steve smile and that smile does strange things to Barnes’ insides. He likes that smile, likes it even better when he causes it. 

Barnes follows Steve to the kitchen, dragging his feet only a little, just to make Steve glance back so that Barnes can flick his eyebrows up at him. The look makes Steve pause for a moment, the expression on his face a mix of excitement and confusion. 

“Are you messing with me?” He asks, a hint of teasing in the back of his throat.  
Barnes grins and pinches his fingers together. “Maybe a little.”

He remembers teasing, remembers playing. He wants to do those things again and is slowly figuring out how. This makes Steve laugh and lightly brush his knuckles into his shoulder. Years ago, he’d have straight up punched him in the arm. Before being Captain America, he’d sometimes bruise his hand. After becoming Captain America, he’d sometimes bruise his Bucky’s arm. 

But Barnes is able to take the gestures as one of acceptance, one that means Steve not only gets, but appreciates his teasing. A chuckle escapes his lips, and it feels good. He wants more of that. 

They continue to the kitchen, full of people already. As soon as Barnes walks in behind Steve, the loud and animated conversations calm down to a softer tone.

“Morning, Barnes.” Sam greets from his spot cooking eggs at the stove. “Just in time!”  
Natasha rolls her eyes. “Nuh-uh, Barnes knows my pancakes are way better than your eggs.”  
Clint rolls his eyes. “Best just to go with it, bud.”  
Barnes grins. “I like both. Can I have both?”  
“A mighty appetite for a mighty warrior!” Thor booms, just a little too loud and Barnes stiffens. “My apologies, Barnes.” He says softer this time.  
“S’okay.”

They sit down and Steve hands him an empty plate. There are knives on the table now. For a while, Barnes wasn’t okay with anyone holding a knife near him. Within moments he has a plate filled with eggs and pancakes, but no bacon. Steve has the rest of the bacon on his plate. So while he’s busy chatting with Sam, Barnes reaches across and steals a piece, popping it into his mouth quickly. 

Unsure what just happened, Steve falls silent for a moment and glances from Barnes to his plate. His eyes focus on the food in front of him, and since Barnes is pretending he didn’t do anything, Steve seems to be unable to tell if it did or not. He rattles his head and goes back to talking. Barnes sees Natasha hiding a smile. He smirks at her before doing it again. 

“What the…?” Steve laughs. “Bucky!”  
He chuckles. “You’re hogging all the bacon.”

Barnes snags up the last piece and shove it in his mouth, big, cheesy grin on his face as he chews. The look on Steve’s face is enough to melt the heart he’s trying so hard to thaw. He looks positively thrilled. But it does make Barnes feel a tad bit uncomfortable. Sure, he’s happy now, but what happens when Barnes does something inappropriate again, or snaps again, or just doesn’t remember something that Steve thought he did?

Everyone has gone back to talking. There’s a small pressure on Barnes’ knee and it takes him a moment to realize that Steve has his hand on him. He’s still talking with everyone though. Barnes isn’t even sure if Steve’s aware his hand is there at all. He doesn’t say anything nor try to push him off. 

They’re all talking about kissing. About first kisses and best kisses and worst kisses. Tony and Pepper have joined them as well, Pepper refusing to talk about their first kiss, but very willing to talk about their most awkward. Barnes likes Pepper. She’s kind and protective and reminds him of what he can remember of his own mama. 

Tony is suddenly very interested in Steve’s first kiss. Steve’s face is totally red, all the way up to the tips of his ears, as he shakes his head. 

“Janice O’Murphy.” Barnes states, the image of the young girl--freckle faced and red haired--popping in his mind.

Steve’s head snaps towards him, eyes wide and mouth open. The rest of them wait for him to say more.

“She was his first kiss.” He informs them. “Right, Steve?”

The blush on Steve’s face deepens, though Barnes can hardly imagine why. It’s not like they’d never talked about that before. 

“You had a crush on her, remember?” Barnes looks to the others. “He did. They kissed behind the school in the sixth grade.”  
“Shit, Bucky,” Steve chuckles. “Of all the things for you to remember.”  
Barnes shrugs. “We used to kiss, too.”

Steve’s eyes go wide. Clint coughs on what he was drinking while Sam buries his face in his hands, and Tony laughs. 

“What?” He asks. “We did, didn’t…”

And then it falls into place. Sure, he suddenly remembers them kissing. But they’re not supposed to let anyone know. It’s a secret. 

“I mean...no…”  
“Hey remember when Clint fell into the lobster tank?” Natasha interrupts.  
“The hell, Tasha?” Clint exclaims. “I thought we agreed never to _talk_ about that!”

They all laugh and then go on with breakfast as though Barnes hadn’t said anything at all. All of them except Steve. He leaves his hand on Barnes’ knee though, and his expression is deep in thought, happy even. That makes Barnes feel just a little bit better. 

***

Things continue on as normal after Barnes’ slip of the tongue. For him, though, more and more memories are breaking through. Not all of them are good. When they’re not, Barnes is less hesitant to find Steve now (he no longer feels the need to be attached to Steve as much, so there are times they’ll be on opposite sides of the Tower). Steve is always accommodating. Whether it’s just a round together in the gym to work out anger, or just sitting in stunned silence, or a shared bed after a nightmare, or, more often than not, a shoulder to cry on, Steve is always there for him. 

But there are other memories, good memories, some stronger than others, that keep on coming. Sometimes he’s not sure if he’s concocted some of them or if they’re real. Steve is usually able to confirm which ones are real and which aren’t. 

“Sounds like you.” He says sometimes. “I dunno if it really happened cause it sounds like I wasn’t there. But...I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Thing is, ever since he remembered kissing Steve--little, skinny Steve many times, and Captain America Steve once--it’s all he keeps thinking about. He wants to talk about it, but he’s afraid to. He’s been made aware that times are different now, that people knowing they kissed isn’t the same as it was back then. But it still worries him. Barnes tells Sam--who he talks to between therapy sessions--that there’s something he wants to talk to Steve about, though he never says exactly what it is. 

“One thing I’ve learn?” Sam tells him. “Is that you’ll probably regret _not_ talking to him _more_ later than if you don’t get the answer you’re looking for now.”

Barnes sees his point, but that doesn’t make it any less scary. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore it though and he finds himself _avoiding_ Steve because of it. That’s one of the last things he wants to do. He _wants_ to be around Steve, _wants_ to be wrapped up in his arms. But he’s even afraid of _that_. The only times he’s ever let Steve hold him is when he’s in a panic or calming down from a nightmare or crying. They’ve all been times of duress and Barnes isn’t quite sure how to initiate affection in any other situation--or that it won’t...wake the defenses in the Winter Soldier. 

No doubt Steve has noticed the difference in Barnes’ behavior. He’s getting up before Steve returns from his run--which, admittedly helps with the whole not sleeping all day thing--sitting across from instead of next to him at the table, he’s so much more tight mouthed around him, yet less with the others. He knows he’s disappointing Steve again, right after he got his hopes up, too. If he starts to worry, he might have him put back on suicide watch or something and Barnes does _not_ want that so he’s going to have to figure out how to do something about this.

It’s late into the night when something changes--the universe maybe finally giving him a bit of a break. He’s still awake, not because he’s trying to stay awake, but because he’s reading. There’s a stack of books next to his bed, and he intends on getting through all of them eventually. This one is particularly good--a sister and brother, their lawyer dad who reminds Barnes of Steve, the south, a recluse neighbor, an unfair trial--he can’t wait to see how it ends. 

He’s in the middle of the trial when there’s a quiet knock on his door. Barnes lowers the book and looks up at it as though he’ll be able to see who’s there even though it’s shut.

“Yeah?”

The door cracks open to reveal Steve behind it. Barnes’ stomach flips. Steve is just standing there though, lips pressed together with a furrow between his eyebrows.

“Steve?” Barnes sits straight up. “Are you okay?”  
Steve shakes his head. “I, uh, I had a...nightmare. Do you…” He sighs and Barnes can see the flush take his skin. “Do you think it’ll be alright if I come in for a little while, Buc...Barnes?”  
Barnes blinks a few times. “You have bad dreams?”  
He cracks an awkward grin. “Sometimes. I usually go to Nat’s room, but...I thought...maybe…”

Unable to believe his own ears, Barnes feels his chest get tight--with both excitement and nerves. Steve sought _him_ out for comfort. That...that must have been a good sign, right? But suddenly he’s not sure what he should do. He’s staring at Steve, and maybe Steve can read the helplessness on his face because he shifts his weight a bit and then says “You don’t have to do nothing. I just...didn’t want to be alone.”

Barnes nods. “You wanna…?”

He glances to the empty space in the bed he’s in and Steve comes into the room. Slowly, he sits down on the mattress and adjusts his position so that he’s actually _on_ the damn thing and not just at the edge of it. For a moment, the two of them just sit rigid and awkward next to one another. Then, Steve sighs and some of the tension melts out of his body. 

Barnes can tell he’s looking at him from the corner of his eye, and Steve gradually starts to lower himself so that he’s head is resting on his lap. His entire body is stiff again, all the muscles tight and worried, the same as Barnes’ are. 

“Is this okay?” Steve whispers. 

And it _is_ okay. It’s more than okay. Because Barnes _remembers_ this position. He can remember little Steve Rogers crawling to bed with him, for various reason--bad dreams, feeling ill, being cold--and Steve’s Bucky would…

Barnes finds his hand petting Steve’s hair. This is natural, this is right. _This_ is what he’s supposed to be doing. 

Images flash through his mind. Steve snuggling up against him. Steve hugging him. Steve’s kisses. All of it floods him mind, some of them hazy, most of them coming to him in perfect clarity. 

“Stevie…” He breathes, almost silently.

Barnes can hear the breath catch in Steve’s throat. The name must still mean something to him.

“I used to call you that.” Barnes whispers.  
Steve is quiet for just a few seconds. “Yes.”  
“And we _did_ used to kiss.”  
“Yeah, Buck…” He sighs. “Yes, Barnes. We used to kiss.”  
“But we stopped…” A pretty brunette--strong, warm, confident--is smiling at him behind his eyelids. “Peggy.”

More tension runs through Steve but he doesn’t say anything to that. That’s why they’d only kissed once after Steve became Captain America--a stolen kiss on their long walk back to the base after he rescued his Bucky--the first time--from Hydra. Peggy. Steve was Peggy’s, or something like that. And Barnes can remember that Bucky absolutely adored Peggy. She saw Captain America _in_ Steve before the serum, before the Commandos-- _oh! The Howling Commandos! Jones, Dum Dum, Morita, Falsworth, Denier!_ They come on just as strongly as the rest of the memories tonight, and Barnes finds himself wiping tears from his eyes. So does the knowledge that Peggy loved Steve, not Captain America, but _Steve_ , the same way he did. Because Bucky had loved Steve with all his heart, and now, Barnes…

_I love you, Stevie._

And he does. Barnes is in love with Steve Rogers, same as Bucky had been. That’s what he feels when something warm pools in his belly every time Steve smiles at him. That’s what it is when his head is dizzy after looking into the endearing, blue eyes of his. That’s what has him teetering on so many different emotions at the thought of him. It was love. 

Months ago, hell, weeks ago, Barnes thought the only thing he’d ever be able to feel again was bitter, anger, hate. And now, he was in love. 

When he feels Steve tremble slightly, he realizes that the man in his lap is crying. He’s still petting his head, his hand absently running over the soft strands of golden brown hair.

“I’m sorry.” Barnes whispers since it’s the only thing he can think to say.  
Steve glances over his shoulder, eyes all misty, and cocks one eyebrow. “Why?”  
“I upset you, didn’t I?”

Understanding touches his face and Steve turns so that he facing him better. He shakes his head.

“No, Bu...Barnes.” His normal ability to call him Barnes seems to be slipping tonight. “You didn’t upset me. This is on me. I just...I don’t really know.”  
“Bucky was in love with you.”

It just comes out of his mouth, the words, they just, fall out of him like something his body needed to get rid of. Only he didn’t get rid of them, he just shared them, because it’s all still in him, and now they’re hanging in the air as well.

Steve draws in a deep breath. “I was in love with Bucky.”  
“But...Peggy?”  
“I was in love with Peggy.” He agrees. “Still am. Both accounts.”

Both accounts? Did that mean… _him_? Steve Rogers loved him? Even though...Bucky was...maybe him? Inside? Was there still a Bucky that could go on living? Even after all that he’d done as the Winter Soldier? Steve was still in love with him? Could forgive him that much? And Bucky? Could he be Bucky? He wants to be Bucky again. _Needs_ to be Bucky again.

“Still?” He questions. “You still love me?”  
Steve nods. “Never stopped.”  
“Even...even with…” Barnes eyes drift to where the metal arm is connected to his body. “Even…”

Steve lifts himself off his lap, and although he’s closer in one way, the absence from his legs feels emptying. Without a word, Steve leans in and kisses that very spot. A chill runs through Barnes. No one’s ever touched that spot--not that he can remember anyway. Having Steve’s lips be the first to do it, it’s like nothing he’s ever felt--and that he knows is true.

“Kiss me, Steve?”  
“I dunno if that’s such a good idea.” He admits. “What if...you don’t like it? Or what if…”  
“Stevie,” Barnes whimpers. “Please?”

It looks as though he breaks Steve’s heart when he says it like that, and Barnes just might log that away for later use. Steve gently takes hold of his face, and looks at him for an immeasurable amount of time. It’s like he’s trying to determine if this is right, or convince himself not to do it when he so desperately wants to. 

He moves in slowly and rests his lips against Barnes’. It’s just a little firmer and longer than a peck before he pulls away again. Only Barnes doesn’t let him. He tugs on his shirt and keeps him there, letting their lips stay right where they are. They start to move their mouths, awkward at first, then with a familiar sense of fluid motion. 

The sensations that shoot through Barnes grow out of his belly and spread to his whole body. Kissing Steve is almost soul shattering, in the only way it could ever be good, and he curls his toes and threads his fingers through Steve’s hair. He wishes that a kiss could really be magic, the way they are in fairy tales. Because if there was ever a kiss that could bring him back all his memories, bring him back to where he wants to be, this would be it. 

They’re both a little breathless when the kiss ends. Eyes closed, Steve still manages to gently run his fingers across Barnes’ cheek--another familiar gesture. 

“Steve?”  
“Mm?

Steve appears to be unable to open his eyes, like he’s worried it’ll all be a dream if he does. 

“Is it okay to be Bucky now?”

Steve’s eyes open and they glisten with something that he can’t quite decipher. 

“If that’s who you want to be.” He says. “If that who you feel you are. You’ve always been Bucky to me.”  
“Even...after everything…”  
“You’ve _always_ been Bucky to me.”  
He nods. “You...you can call me Bucky, Steve.”  
Steve hides his tears with a smile. “Welcome home, Bucky.”  
“Thanks, Stevie.” 

**Part Three:**  
 **Bucky**

Steve leaves now. He goes out on missions with the Avengers, and Bucky stays behind. He’s had meetings with Steve, and his doctors, and Phil Coulson and Nick Fury about being able to join in eventually. Time isn’t right though, not yet, not for anything more than recon, which Bucky will happily do just for something to do. Anything more than that has the potential to trigger his less pleasant memories, and while Bucky has taken quite good handle over the Winter Soldier lying dormant inside of him, he’s not willing to take the chance yet. 

He doesn’t really like it when Steve goes off without him. For more than one reason. Bucky’s settling pretty nicely now, reaching the year mark since living with the Avengers. But he still feels best, safest, with Steve near. He’s the one best equipped to pull him back out during those, now, rare times when the Winter Soldier shows his colors. 

Then there’s the fact that he just genuinely _wants_ Steve to be around. Now that they’ve began reconnecting, starting to figure out how to be together again, Bucky loves to soak up as much of Steve as he possibly can. 

Although, he’s never been left completely alone. There’s always someone in the Tower with him, which has actually been useful. Bucky has warmed up to them a lot more now, feeling a bit more comfortable in their company and with opening up. Each of them bring something a little more into his life. Sam’s open ear (and never judgemental attitude), Natasha’s non-coddling approach (she’s now quick to kick him in the ass if she thinks he needs it), Clint’s humor (though Bucky’ll be damned if he admits he finds Barton as funny as he does), Bruce’s kindness (he’s never once looked at him differently after waking up from a black out), Thor’s enthusiasm (Bucky is less nervous around him, but Thor still takes precautions), Tony’s intelligence (his cocky attitude doesn’t so much _bother_ Bucky as it makes him roll his eyes at him), Pepper’s tenderness (she still reminds him of his mother), Rhodey’s patience (he never minds having to explain something more than once) Jane’s optimism, (she never fails to make Bucky feel just a little lighter when she’s around), Darcy’s snark (she’s a reminder that he’s missed a lot, but some things haven’t changed).

What Bucky misses most when Steve is gone is the validation of the memories that creep up on him. There’s no one else who can tell him if what’s in his mind is real or made up. Usually anyway. 

Steve is due back in a few days, and it’s a good thing, too, since Bucky has been having strange flashes in his mind. They’re Winter Soldier memories, he knows that much. But from the bits and pieces in his head, he’s pretty sure they’re more recent. 

_He’s on a bridge, a roadway._

_There are bullets flying everywhere. Bucky, or the Winter Soldier rather, moves smoothly, the bullets whizzing by him._

_The soldier takes his shots. His target--targets--get away._

_He chases._

_A flash of red hair._

_Explosions._

_Running._

_Chasing._

_One shot._

_Hit._

_Target down._

Bucky’s not sure what to make of this one. Because he thinks he knows who that target was. 

All day long, Bucky struggles with the possibility of what he’d done to someone he knows, a friend. Without Steve to talk to about it, he’s not sure what to do with the information his brain is forcing on him. 

“Um...Jarvis?” He calls out softly, very new, and still very awkward, to speaking to the voice in the walls.  
“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?”  
Bucky takes in a deep breath. “Is Natasha here?”  
“Agent Romanoff is in the gym with Agent Barton,” Jarvis informs him. “Would you like me to tell her you require her presence?”  
“Er, no, um, thank you.”  
“Of course, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky decides to wait in the kitchen. He can no longer put this off, but he doesn’t feel right going to the gym and interrupting. Natasha and Clint will wind up in the kitchen when they’re done anyway. He sits at the table, ringing his hands and trying to figure out what he should say when they show up.

He doesn’t have to wait very long. Within the hour Bucky can hear their voices coming closer, can hear the jests and jabs they take at one another (seems Clint is claiming Natasha cheated on something they did). A breath catches in Bucky’s throat. But he’s no coward. He came here to do something and damn it to hell he’ll get it done. 

“Hey, Bucky.” Nat greets when she and Clint saunter in.  
“S’going on, Bucky?” Clint says just seconds after. 

Everyone seems to make a point to use his name all the time. Bucky doesn’t mind really; it’s actually kind of comforting. 

Bucky just stares at them--at Nat really--for a moment without responding, or even acknowledging their greetings. All the words he had in his head have seem to have disappeared. And the only thing he can think to say is, “Did I shoot you?”

Both of them had been headed to the fridge. The second the question is out, however, Nat and Clint both freeze. Seconds later, they’re both facing him and Bucky’s trembling just enough for _him_ to know, not enough for anyone else. Clint glances at Nat and then back to Bucky.

“Yeah, so I’m gonna make this less awkward,” He says and leaves without another word. 

Natasha blinks a few times before going back into the fridge and grabbing a handful of grapes. Bucky’s trying to keep his breathing even as she makes her way over to the table and sits down across from him. She pops a grape into her mouth. But she still doesn’t say anything. Bucky swallows hard. 

“Did I?”  
She nods, and tosses another grape in. “Twice.”  
“Twice?”  
“Which do you remember?”

Bucky takes a moment to let only a little bit of the memory through. He can see a highway, and, who he believes is Nat, running and him giving chase. They fight, sort of. He tosses her off quickly and she runs again.

“On the bridge?” He questions. “Was that you?”  
“The second time.”

He glances at his hands in his lap. Millions of words and sentences scramble about in his mind, but none are decent enough to say. How does one apologize for that? _Hey, remember that time I was a brainwashed assassin and shot you? Well, sorry about that._

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes a few times before Nat cracks a smile. He realizes that she doesn’t look mad about the situation at all. Maybe bitter...no, that’s not right. Slighted? Whatever word he’s looking for, Natasha appears more put off by the fact that he was _able_ to shoot her, not that he _did_ shoot her.

“You must not be as good as you thought you were.” She states.  
His eyebrows lift. “What?”  
“I mean, the Winter Soldier shot me twice. And here I am.” Natasha smirks. “Sounds like your skills may be exaggerated.”

Lips twitching a little, Bucky knows she’s just being nice. He can remember the shot--the second one anyway--very clearly. It was a killshot, and he’d made it perfectly. Natasha was still alive because...Steve helped her. That part of the memory is new. Steve was there. Everything else is hazy, but he remembers that Steve was there. If he hadn’t been there, she’d be dead.

“M’sorry.” He mutters softly.  
“Don’t sweat it.” She assures him. “We’ll find a way for you to make it up to me.”

The way she looks at him now, like he’d never harmed her, not once, let alone twice, made Bucky feel warm inside. These people were his friends, and though he was certain he was destined for Hell, none of them blamed him for the things the Winter Soldier had done.

***

Bucky’s been busy in the kitchen for hours. He’s attempting to make a cake, specifically the recipe that’s _somewhere_ in his head. It was Steve’s ma’s recipe and he really wants to make it just like her. Today is the day, and Bucky has been smiling so much that Tony rolls his eyes at him several times.

“Look at you.” He teases. “You’re like a kid before Christmas just cause your spangly man is coming home.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at him. 

“70 years, Stark.” He growls. “I had to wait _70_ years just to _see_ him again. So...fuck off.” Bucky smirks. “And let me be excited about seeing my man.”

Tony holds his palms out in defeat and allows Bucky to make quite a bit of a mess in his kitchen. After getting help with the shopping--from Pepper and Sam--Bucky ends up spilling sugar all over the counter, smearing egg all over the table, gets batter everywhere when he turned the mixer on--he laughs for the better of twenty minutes over that one--and eats more of the chocolate frosting than he puts on the cake. 

“Ooo, cake!” Clint exclaims when he wanders into the kitchen while Bucky’s scrubbing some of the batter off the walls.  
Bucky doesn’t even glance at him. “Barton, you _touch_ that cake and I swear I will beat your ass six ways to fucking Sunday.”  
“Look at this guy,” Tony grunts from the hall. “All shy and quiet one day and then mess with his boyfriend in anyway and he gets all demanding and foulmouthed.”  
“Some things don’t change.” Bucky decides. 

Less than an hour later, Bucky has finally finished cleaning _most_ of the mess when Steve comes in.

“Smells good in here.” He says before Bucky even knows he’s there.

The sound of his voice pulls a huge smile out of Bucky and he spins around, all ready to greet him. But he can’t. Bucky practically falls all over himself when he sees the stubble on Steve’s face. Looks like he hasn’t had a decent shave in several days and _shit, holy shit_ , he looks hot as hell. It’s clear he’s just taken a shower, probably took a few minutes to do that before looking for Bucky. His hair is damp and he’s only wearing sweats. Bucky’s not sure how long he’s just staring at him, but apparently it’s long enough to cause Steve to worry a little. 

“Bucky? What’s wrong?”  
Bucky rattles his head. “No. Nothing. You just…” He swallows heavy. “You look great, Stevie.”

Steve lowers his chin with a smile, a bit of pink touching his cheeks. Before he can look back up, Bucky finds the feeling in his legs again and moves to him, wrapping his arms around Steve and pressing the side of his face into his bare chest. Steve takes him into his arms and lets out a contented sigh, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as Bucky has.

“I made a cake.” Bucky says softly, keeping in the same position.  
He can feel Steve’s chest rumble with a chuckle. “I see that. What’s the occasion?”  
“You, you shit.” He scoffs.  
Steve pokes him in the side. “Well thank you.”

Bucky reaches for the cake and plucks a piece off. He holds it up to Steve’s lip, but doesn’t feed it to him right away. 

“I tried to get your ma’s recipe.” He admits. “Don’t lie.”

Steve nods and opens his mouth to let Bucky place the chocolate frosted morsel into his mouth. As soon as it’s on his tongue, Steve’s eyes close and he breathes out a moan. 

“Mmm.” He chews slowly, as though he’s trying to savor the taste. “Officially starting now, you’re baking forever.”

He opens his eyes just in time to catch Bucky’s smile. A bit of frosting is still on Bucky’s fingers and when he goes to lick it off, Steve takes hold of his wrist. Bucky glances up at him and Steve brings those fingers up to his mouth to suck the frosting off himself. 

Feeling Steve’s tongue swirling around his fingers like that makes Bucky’s dick give a little twitch. A devious smirk lifts up on Steve’s mouth. 

“You want some frosting?” He murmurs and then slips his fingers across the side of the cake. 

Bucky can’t help licking his lips as Steve smears a bit of it on his chest, right above his left nipple. His eyes flick back up to Steve’s face.

“Help yourself.” Steve drawls, voice deep and seductive. 

The tiniest, and maybe just a little pathetic, of whimpers comes out of his throat and Bucky dives in, running his tongue all across the frosting on Steve’s skin. He pulls a moan from Steve as he trails kisses down to his tummy. By the time he reaches his knees, Bucky’s dick is so hard he’s already ready to burst. He presses his mouth against Steve’s pants and feels the same thing going on. Bucky lowers Steve’s pants and goes to lick him.

“Wait, wait…” Steve’s voice is weak and shaky. “Maybe...not here? We’re in the kitchen…”  
“What better place to have something to eat?” 

He gives Steve no more chance to argue before pulling the blonde’s dick into his mouth. Steve’s knees shake a little and he knots his fingers through Bucky’s hair. Bucky still doesn’t remember everything--not sure if he ever will--but one thing he does remember clearly now is having sex with Steve, particularly the sweet noises he makes. That hasn’t changed and Bucky smiles around his length when his name starts coming softly from Steve’s mouth. 

“Oh, Bucky…” Steve murmurs. “Bucky, Bucky...shit...that...oh _God_ you’re so good.”

Steve’s praise turns Bucky on even more, and his hand slides into his pants to start stroking himself. 

“Stop that.” Steve suddenly commands and when Bucky’s eyes lift to his he says, “Come up here.” Then he shuts his eyes tight and rattles his head. “Wait...if you want. I mean…”  
Bucky lets Steve’s cock slip from his mouth. “Shut up, Steve.” He chuckles as he does what Steve wants.

There was a time, so, so long ago, that Bucky _enjoyed_ Steve being bossy like this. It seems as though Steve still enjoys it as well, even if he is hesitant. Of course, Bucky understands why, and knows that they’re going to have a long, _long_ conversation about why they _shouldn’t_ do that now with Bucky trying to convince Steve that some things never change. But for right now, Bucky will take what he can get. 

So when he gets to his feet, Bucky waits for further instruction. But Steve shakes his head, eyes laced with worry. Bucky sighs through a small grin and decides it’s just best to take the lead for now. He pulls Steve in for a kiss, and can’t help the groan when he feels the coarse hairs brush against him. The groan lasts longer than he intended when Steve wraps his hand around his dick and takes over stroking for him. He can feel his balls tighten and since he doesn’t want to finish too far ahead of Steve, Bucky takes hold of him and slides his hand up and down, thumb pressing lightly into the tip. 

They both shoot off right after the other, though Bucky’s not sure who went first. But he ends up wrapped in Steve’s arms again, trembling and panting, while Steve kisses his hair over and over. 

Deciding the leave the cake for later, the two of them dart to Steve’s bedroom--well, it’s almost _their_ bedroom, since Bucky spends most nights there anyway, even when Steve is gone--and fall into the bed laughing. 

“I missed you.” Steve says as he pulls Bucky up to lay on his chest.  
“You, too.”  
“Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”  
“Uh, I...I remembered something.”  
“Oh yeah?”

Bucky twists his lips, but knows from experience it’s best just to tell Steve now rather than slip later on. It always hurts Steve when he keeps things from him. Steve tries to hide that from him, but Bucky can always see it. Steve was never a very good liar anyway. 

“I shot Natasha. On the bridge? Or off of it. You were there.” Steve body tenses underneath him. Bucky lifts his head so that his chin is propped on Steve’s chest. “What else happened that day?”  
“Um...nothing really…”  
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Your such a fucking liar.” He growls. “Tell me what happened.”  
Pressing his lips together, Steve sucks in a deep breath. “That’s, uh, that was the day I...we...I didn’t know…” He rattles his head. “I found out who the Winter Soldier was that day.”

Bucky’s eyes lower, a hollow feeling spreading through him. This isn’t Steve’s fault. He’d asked him to tell him what happened. 

_Bucky?_  
 _Who the hell is Bucky?_

“Oh God…” He whispers and looks back into Steve’ eyes. “Steve...did we...we fought, didn’t we?”  
“Bucky, it…”  
“Shit, holy shit, fuck, we did, didn’t we?” Bucky shoots up now, horrified and overwhelmed by the sudden nausea that hits him. “Did I hurt you?” Steve doesn’t answer. “ _Steve_ , did. I. Hurt. You?”  
“No.” He says. “Not really. It was…”

_You know me._  
 _No I don’t!_  
 _He punches._  
 _Bucky, you’ve known me your whole life._  
 _He punches._  
 _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._  
 _Shut up!_  
 _He punches._  
 _I’m not gonna fight you. You’re my friend._  
 _He tackles._  
 _You’re my mission._  
 _He punches...and punches...and punches._  
 _You’re.My.Mission._

_Steve. Bloody. Broken. Hurt. Underneath him. Because of him._

“Steve!” Bucky flies off the bed, his heart pounding and body trembling. “Oh my God! Steve, I…I _hurt_ you! I…no, no, no...how could I...I _did_ that to you…”  
“ _No_ , Bucky!” Steve is on his feet, too, reaching out for Bucky as he paces back and forth. “It _wasn’t_ you!”  
“It _was_ , Steve!” He insists and holds up his fists. “These _hurt_ you! Don’t you get that? How...how can you...even stand to…” Bucky wouldn’t have realized there were tears on his cheeks if Steve didn’t wipe them away. “Oh, Stevie...I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry…”  
“Hey, hey…” Steve opens his arms, and though Bucky feels he hardly deserves it, he can’t help being selfish enough to throw himself in them. “It’s _okay_ , Bucky.” He murmurs over and over as Bucky cries in his arms. “You don’t remember the rest?”  
“The rest?”  
“Yeah...Bucky...you…”  
“I jumped in after you…” Bucky had already remembered fishing Steve out of the river, but it wasn’t until now that he knew what he was doing there. He pulls away to look at him. “ _I_ went in after you.”  
Steve smiles. “That’s right. First thing you did on your own. You attacked me,” Bucky flinches, “because I was your mission from Hydra. But _you_ came after me, saved me, all on your own. _You_ chose to do that.”

There are still tears in Bucky’s eyes when he rests against Steve again. Maybe Steve was right about that, but nothing, not anything in the world, will ever get him to forgive himself for doing that to Steve. 

And then something else comes to Bucky’s mind...something Steve would never tell him. Because of how angry it will make him. It boils up inside of him. Steve...doing something so fucking stupid it makes him want to kick his ass right here and now. Bucky pushes away from him, and the look he’s giving Steve is enough to make Steve shrink away.

“What?”  
“You _dropped_ your shield?” Bucky exclaims. “Your fucking _shield_? Are you _nuts_?”

Steve’s head gets further and further into his shoulders the more Bucky yells at him. There’s sweat clinging to his face already and his eyes are wide and innocent, as if dropping his shield was a perfectly _logical_ thing to do when a god damn assassin was hellbent on killing him. 

“Well, Bucky...I…”  
“No!” He shakes his head and gives out one humorless laugh. “Uh-ah. You don’t get to sweet talk your way out of this. _Sit_ down.”

He watches Steve’s Adam’s apple bob up and down when he gulps, but otherwise says nothing as he does what Bucky’s told him to do. 

“So, first it’s a grenade…” They’d been through something similar years and years ago after Peggy, bless that woman, told _that_ story. “Then it’s signing yourself up for some super secret crazy fucking experiment…”  
“But…”  
“No, no, _no_! Shut up and listen. _Then_ you _drop_ your shield?! What the fuck, Steve? I’m gone for ten fucking minutes and you just can’t _keep_ from doing dumb shit, can you?”  
“Bucky...I…”  
“I could have _killed_ you! I damn near did!” Another shudder runs up his spine. “And then what would have happened? Do you have any idea what that would have done to me? If I knew I _killed_ you?”

Steve’s head drops down like he’s suddenly ashamed of what he did, even if he’d do it all over again if he had to.

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs. “Bucky, I, I was just...I wanted to reach out to you. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t lose you again, Bucky. I just...couldn’t…”  
Bucky takes a moment to process that. “You thought we were going to die, didn’t you?”  
Steve picks his head back up. “I did, or, at least, if I couldn’t have you back…”  
“You’d rather have _died_?”  
“Than lose you again?”

And suddenly, just like that, Bucky understands. He doesn’t approve, not one bit, because they were talking about Steve, not him. But...reverse them? He’d have done the same, and he knows it. 

“Do you still love me?” Steve asks, pulling Bucky from his thoughts.  
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up, punk. Of course I do.”

The crooked smile that pulls up on Steve’s lips melts Bucky’s heart. Still timid and cautious of Bucky’s anger, he slowly raises his arm out to him. Though he was still annoyed-- _Jesus, Steve, I could have killed you_ \--Bucky sits down next to him and snuggles into his side. 

“I didn’t think.” Steve murmurs. “I didn’t get that far ahead. I’m sorry.”  
“Didn’t think, huh?” He sighs, drawing light circles with his fingers along Steve’s knee. “Still something you _don’t_ do?”  
“Not thinking? Hell, I think all the time, you know that. But...sometimes I have to do things that...require action too quickly. And if you’re involved?”  
“You did jump fire for me once.”  
“I did do that.” Steve agrees with a snicker. “You made me ride the Cyclone.”  
Bucky groans. “Yeah. I know. So, I guess we both do some stupid shit.”  
“Some things never change, huh?”  
“The little things.” Bucky remarks, and knows deep down inside that’s what matters most. “They’re the ones that matter.”  
“Bucky?” Bucky glances up at him. “Will you kiss me now?”

Smiling, Bucky picks himself up a bit so that his lips press into Steve’s. Steve still tastes like chocolate, and Bucky remembers that Steve always tasted sweet. He grins through their kiss. A lot of things have changed, in seventy years, in one year, lots of change. Some good, some bad, some that made no difference at all. But the little things that never change? They mean the most to Bucky.

And always will.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave comments! Any criticism is welcome, but please keep it polite and constructive. Saying you suck or this sucks doesn't get me anywhere. 
> 
> I love friends! Come follow me on tumblr!
> 
> [thebestpersonherelovesbucky](thebestpersonherelovesbucky.tumblr.com)


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